TBR CH125

After sending Ji Ying off, Chu Huaicun stayed alone in the peach grove for a while, deep in thought. The branches of peach blossoms trembled in the night breeze, their unbloomed colors gleaming eerily—for some reason, it all gave off a strange, unsettling feeling.

Just like the impression that man left on him.

It wasn’t the first time Chu Huaicun had been admired, but Ji Ying’s blunt, almost reckless confession—so unrestrained and decisive—did leave him a little at a loss. The Prime Minister hadn’t forgotten the weighty issues Ji Ying had avoided, like his description of pain, and the refusal to explain if someone had leverage over him. For those to be deflected by the word “love” made it feel… insubstantial. He didn’t respond, and Ji Ying hadn’t seemed regretful either.

Before leaving, Ji Ying took with him the peach blossom branch he had broken off earlier. Chu Huaicun hesitated for a moment and asked him to stop. He had noticed that the branch, having been separated from the tree for too long, had already begun shedding petals—some crushed beneath Ji Ying’s feet.

“Take a freshly cut one instead,” he said.

Ji Ying’s eyes brightened in the darkness, visibly delighted. For once, Chu Huaicun felt a rare sense of awkwardness, acutely aware that the person before him had just seriously confessed to liking him. But he maintained a calm expression, and with a graceful motion of his sword, he sliced a fresh branch from high up in the tree.

Ji Ying held the old branch, then reached for the new one.

“I want both,” he said. “I like the old one, and I like the new one too.”

As he spoke the word “like,” the reflection in his eyes still showed Chu Huaicun. It was too direct. Chu Huaicun felt the remark held deeper meaning—that his affections weren’t really about the flowers. He let out a faint sigh, like ice thawing slightly under the spring wind:

“Lord Ji,” Chu Huaicun asked, “what exactly are you here for?”

Ji Ying’s expression dimmed again at the question, but he still smiled faintly. In the darkness, the deep purple of his robe almost blended into the night—only the soft pink blossoms made him stand out at all. Ji Ying replied:

“I came regarding the Ministry of War. You know the situation, Prime Minister. The rations failed to arrive during transit—not the Ministry of Revenue’s fault. We didn’t shortchange a single coin. Of course, you’re not at fault either. You and I both know where the real problem lies. The only question is—do you plan to protect the Crown Prince?”

Now this was a matter Chu Huaicun was far more familiar with.

The war was urgent, and the rations were delayed—several men had already lost their lives over the matter. Throughout history, such delays were always due to either poor transport or lack of funds. But the Ministry of War handled both areas, and Chu Huaicun had personally mapped out the supply routes. There shouldn’t have been any issues.

And yet the military provisions had failed to arrive on time.

How could someone who controlled the entire Ministry of War not be blamed for such a grave error?

Ji Ying’s smile grew more twisted. His voice, when he spoke to Chu Huaicun, was like a snake hissing through its tongue:

“Prime Minister, Prince Pingjiang has already gone to the Eastern Palace to visit his worthy nephew. His Majesty hasn’t had time to fully investigate the matter. The truth is still murky. Some people haven’t figured out the situation yet. They still think they’ve done something meritorious. But habits die hard—so do fears. The more frightened someone is, the more likely they are to repeat themselves.”

This situation truly was a mess—especially for Chu Huaicun.

Originally, officers across the provinces had all followed protocol. But when the grain couriers reached Pengjiang, they discovered something wrong. The southern regions had been plagued with constant rain for two years. Only when they opened the granaries did they discover the water insulation had failed. Only the top layer of grain was intact; the rest was a soggy, rotten mess—completely unusable.

Caught off guard, the local governor turned pale and dropped to his knees in panic. The supply officer responded swiftly. It was late autumn—not harvest season anymore—but some scattered grain still remained in circulation.

So they scrambled to purchase it. But they needed funds—so they planned to dip into the emergency military budget that Chu Huaicun had set aside.

Military budgets were always padded. Chu Huaicun, a man with military roots, knew this well.

But the problem arose right there. The emergency funds had supposedly been distributed to each courier team—but none of it was traceable. Word then spread that the money had already been used. They had to write a memorial to the court, requesting more. The process was slow, the journey treacherous.

In the end, the Pengjiang grain never made it. It was only because Chu Huaicun acted decisively—redirecting supplies from the slightly farther Xuzhou—that the situation was temporarily salvaged.

Chu Huaicun leaned against the doorframe, looking at Ji Ying. The royal carriage was already waiting. But here, within the grounds of the Prime Minister’s residence, they were still holding this last, secretive conversation. In this shadowy space, Chu Huaicun had a sudden illusion—Ji Ying was like something caged, constantly at war with himself, struggling to tear away his restraints.

Did Ji Ying… not want to leave?

The thought flashed through his mind.

The coachman sitting atop the imperial carriage had a prying look in his eyes. Chu Huaicun, without a word, stepped forward to block the view. Then he turned the tables with a question of his own:

“Is there anything Lord Ji is afraid of?”

His voice was cool, a restrained sort of curiosity.

“Of course,” Ji Ying said, the faint departure-induced unease on his face quickly vanishing. He smiled more heavily now. “I’m currently failing to win the favor of Prime Minister Chu. That terrifies me.”

If his emotions weren’t so false, he might have had a beautiful smile. Chu Huaicun thought so—then realized he had been drawn in again. In truth, he had only known Ji Ying a few days. Any goodwill he had should stem from appreciation of his talents—or perhaps the pull of the secrets that clung to him.

As for liking…

Ji Ying suddenly spoke again. This time, it really sounded like a secret. The flower branch in his hand trembled, then reached out—blocking any outside view and creating a semi-enclosed, ambiguous space between Chu Huaicun, Ji Ying, the blossoms, and the pale wall.

He said, “You gave me a gift, Prime Minister. I liked it. Shouldn’t I give you one in return?”

He seemed to want to keep drawing closer—like a snake coiling upward. Chu Huaicun disliked this atmosphere. He pressed a hand to Ji Ying’s shoulder again, forcing him to look up—and not with that expression of scorn. The skin beneath his fingers tensed beneath the touch, completely at odds with Ji Ying’s easy words. But he didn’t pull away.

Oddly, this pleased Chu Huaicun.

Ji Ying tilted his head slightly, his slender neck exposed. Many people would have liked to wring that schemer’s neck—but Chu Huaicun only let his gaze rest there momentarily.

Ji Ying said, “Let me tell you a secret. I have fears. You do, too. Everyone does. Even His Majesty is no exception—he’s still afraid of the same things he was a decade ago. The question troubling you, Prime Minister… perhaps the answer lies in that fear.”

Chu Huaicun’s pupils contracted. Instinctively, he gripped Ji Ying’s shoulder too hard. Ji Ying bit his lip and smiled faintly:

“Prime Minister, you’re hurting me.”

Chu Huaicun paused—then let go.

His snowy white sleeves fell motionless. He gently ran a hand along the scabbard of his sword. He stood like a blade, gleaming coldly. Ji Ying, momentarily dazed, looked up and met the mirror-like gaze that seemed to see through everything. He had taken a great risk. He knew this wasn’t something he should’ve said—but still—

“I know the Prime Minister is looking for someone. Don’t worry—I have nothing to do with that. It’s just a guess.”

“…Ji Ying,” Chu Huaicun called his real name.

Ji Ying felt a burn rise in his blood. How could he have imagined, one day, that he would be standing before Chu Huaicun, speaking of his past self as if narrating someone else’s story? There was something almost sickly pleasurable about it. But Chu Huaicun’s piercing gaze brought that boiling heat down again.

You don’t believe me, do you?

But you must believe me.

He grabbed Chu Huaicun’s hand and slowly wrote a single character in his palm: “Lin” (藺).

The person you’re looking for, he said silently in his heart, could it be the eldest son of the Lin family—once known as the most gifted gentleman in the capital?

—

There were good places in the capital—depending on who you asked. Take, for example, this hall with its waist-high agate trees, gemstones the size of fingers, and golden leaves suspended in violet smoke. Everything here was expensive—but the most valuable things weren’t the decorations. They were the people seated at the tables, and the price tags they threw down so casually.

Laughter echoed in the smoky air. One man shouted, “Brother Zhang, you’ve struck gold again!” Another quickly shushed him: “Keep it down! That match today was rigged—my luck’s no good, I’m done!” Someone else chimed in, “How can we let Lord Zhang leave unsatisfied, after he returned victorious?”

Peering through the smoke, one could see a middle-aged man dressed in luxurious sapphire silk robes standing at the gambling table. His stack of chips was the smallest—but there was a dangerous light in his eyes, the kind seen in a man addicted to the game. With just a little coaxing from the crowd, he laughed and changed his mind:

“True! The reward I got last night came straight from His Majesty. Let’s go another round—”

Suddenly, the heavy velvet curtains were yanked open. A gust of early spring chill rushed in. The opulent atmosphere was instantly torn apart, and the high-ranking officials scowled, ready to scold the guards—until servants from every family burst inside at a near-panic pace, shouting:

“His Highness the Crown Prince has arrived!”

Why would the Crown Prince come to a place like this?

Places like this operated in a grey area, tacitly allowed by the court. Although the Third Prince might not have been perfect, he was known for keeping himself clean and had always looked down on such dealings. The only connection this place had with the Crown Prince was a certain individual.

Before the gathered officials could question anything, the Crown Prince stormed in, boots with golden threads stomping heavily.

He only took two seconds to lock his gaze onto the middle-aged man at the center, hatred blazing in his eyes. He opened his mouth to speak but was too furious to form words at first. The man’s arrogance deflated instantly in front of the prince, though not completely extinguished. Unclear on what was happening, he plastered a smile on his face and approached the prince with a feigned air of friendliness.

“Your Highness, what brings you here?” he said. “If Your Highness is interested in this sort of entertainment, it would be my honor as your elder to treat you to a few rounds—”

The Third Prince had finally caught his breath. His jade thumb ring tapped hard against the table, nearly cracking it.

“How dare you still indulge in such debauchery,”

he turned abruptly, pointing directly at the man in front of him and speaking through gritted teeth, “Uncle, you’ve caused a disaster!”

It was widely known that the Crown Prince hadn’t ascended by sheer wit—he leaned heavily on the power of Chancellor Chu. Yet as the emperor’s son, he wasn’t entirely blind to what was going on. Even if he was flawed, he hadn’t reached the point of cruelty. His fury now was genuine—he never imagined that his own maternal family would commit fraud by falsifying military expenditures.

Why? the Crown Prince wondered. Was it because he lacked money? But as a regional military governor, how could he be short of funds?

Was it smuggling? Gambling?

The music and dance of the gambling hall were abruptly disrupted. Courtesans and attendants knelt on the ground, and the gathered officials looked at each other, none daring to speak. The Crown Prince’s maternal uncle, who had been gambling with them, clearly implicated them all. If something went wrong, none of them would escape unscathed. The middle-aged man—none other than the King of Pingjiang, granted his title by the emperor—turned pale.

“The emperor found out? That’s impossible,” he muttered, shocked. “There was surplus in the military fund—I only moved a small portion. That Mister Fang said it would be fine, that it was foolproof… The rebellion was crushed in Jincheng, and just yesterday I was rewarded by His Majesty.”

“You think that’s when they started investigating you?”

The Crown Prince sneered. “You’re right, you only moved a small portion. But you took the biggest slice. His Majesty’s been waiting for a reason to target me—what a perfect opportunity.”

“Has Your Highness told Chancellor Chu?” the King of Pingjiang asked in a panic, instinctively thinking of the man in white, cold and untouchable. He was the true wielder of power. At this moment, the puppet stage set up by the Crown Prince was useless—only someone from Chancellor Chu’s faction could intervene. The Crown Prince looked at him coldly for a long moment before sighing deeply:

“Uncle, as you know, I have very few capable people around me—especially from my mother’s side. She’s done all she can in the palace. Throughout history, has any crown prince lacked allies in the provinces?”

As the saying goes, “In office, fulfill your duty.” He hadn’t exactly wanted to be Chancellor Chu’s puppet. He had worked under Chu’s nose to raise his maternal family’s power. Jincheng was a land of immense wealth, and the King of Pingjiang was his uncle. So he’d done everything possible to get him installed there by leveraging the Crown Prince’s influence.

Who would’ve thought it would all lead to this?

“What did Chancellor Chu say?” the King of Pingjiang asked, truly panicking now. He took two quick steps toward the prince, disregarding his status. The Crown Prince stared at him for a few moments before answering:

“Chu Huaicun has no choice but to protect me. He has no better candidate. The deposed Crown Prince hates him to the bone, and the new Seventh Prince is still playing his little games. For him, the most beneficial move is to shoulder this blame himself. Even without control of the Ministry of War, his power remains immense. But if I get tainted because of my maternal family, it’ll spiral out of control.”

The prince paused. “But everyone’s patience has limits. There are plenty of people who want the throne.”

The middle-aged man finally slumped. Despite his luxurious attire, he looked almost relieved, muttering, “Then it’s alright… then it’s alright.” But the prince sighed again, this time more heavily:

“Is it really such a blessing to fall into Chancellor Chu’s hands?” he said. “Uncle, you may avoid the death penalty, but you won’t escape punishment. No matter where that money went, Chancellor Chu will make you cough it up. Sometimes I really wonder why he doesn’t just become…”

“Your Highness, mind your words.”

The surrounding officials quickly cut him off, seeing the conversation veering into dangerous territory.

Although Chu Huaicun held significant military power, it didn’t mean he was rebelling. The authority of the imperial family still existed, the moral codes of the gentry were still in place, and the people’s judgment remained. The emperor had reigned for nearly twenty years without a major upheaval.

The Crown Prince was still young—perhaps it was just his anger talking.

The King of Pingjiang wiped the cold sweat from his brow. He felt as if his spine had gone numb, and he couldn’t help but recall the foolish misstep he had made years ago. He regretted it bitterly.

He loved to gamble—addicted even. The more he lost, the more desperate he became to win it back. In those days, he haunted gambling halls, eventually squandering his entire salary and even misappropriating some government funds. But he was a royal relative, so he hadn’t hit rock bottom—just found himself tight on cash. He hadn’t dared to tell his sister in the palace or his nephew, the Crown Prince.

Then he met a Mister Fang at one of the gambling halls. This man claimed to be well-read and refined, carrying himself with remarkable dignity. Even the Prince, a royal, couldn’t help but admire him. More impressively, Fang casually listed names of influential court officials and spoke knowledgeably about their dealings—clearly someone with deep connections.

Mister Fang revealed a profitable scheme.

The potential earnings were massive. The Prince was lured in by his glib talk and hurriedly invested the rest of his money. Fang’s plan seemed foolproof—until he vanished with the money and the hundreds-strong trade caravan he had promised. Only then did the Prince realize he’d been conned. But since the matter involved smuggling, he couldn’t openly seek help.

So he swallowed the loss in silence. But someone had to account for the missing money.

He remembered how, when the rebellion forces passed through, Mister Fang had vaguely mentioned that sum again. At the time, he still had his senses. But now, broke and desperate, he had no choice but to falsify military expenses and funnel the money into his hands.

Mister Fang may have been a conman, but the Prince thought, his method did work.

It solved his immediate crisis. The rebels were defeated. He returned to the capital to report the victory and seek reward. Though he had vaguely heard about issues with supply logistics, the matter seemed resolved—no one in court brought it up. So he had dismissed it.

He hadn’t realized the emperor had already set a trap beneath his feet, waiting for him to fall in.

“Those people from the underworld,” he growled through clenched teeth, no longer hiding his fury, his refined silk robe unable to contain the wrath emanating from him, “they traffic in all kinds of shady dealings. No matter what, I will find that Mister Fang and skin him alive.”

Chu Huaicun made a trip to the outskirts of the capital.

“Outskirts” wasn’t quite accurate—it was more like a desolate lone mountain hidden among the range encircling the imperial city. Only those intimately familiar with the terrain could find the narrow path leading up the mountain. On a quiet night, not even a single insect chirped. He carried his sword and walked slowly through the withered grass, circling craggy outcrops until he saw a solitary house.

Light glowed from within.

He knocked. The person inside let him in. Chu entered without complaint about the rough furnishings and found a place to sit. Before him sat a man who looked every bit the wandering swordsman—worn straw hat, a beard beginning to grey, with the weathered look of age.

But to Chu Huaicun, this was the man who had raised him.

Orphaned at a young age, Chu had wandered until he met this old swordsman and began a life of hardship and survival. Now, Chu Huaicun was no longer a dirty-faced boy with bright eyes. Yet the swordsman seemed unchanged.

The man gave him a casual glance.

“What are you here for?” he asked. “Did you bring wine or meat? I don’t get many visitors.”

Chu Huaicun set down the package he brought and scanned the modest room. At first glance, there was nothing of value. But on closer look, there were priceless sword manuals, battle-worn blades, and scattered silver ingots. His master had never lacked money—anywhere he traveled, there were friends ready to support him.

Chu Huaicun got straight to the point:

“Master, I need information—something only you might know.”

The old man nodded, the shadow from his hat casting a long line over his face as he continued polishing his sword, motioning for Chu to speak.

“Is there an illness—or a poison,”

Chu Huaicun described carefully, “that causes constant, unbearable pain all over the body, yet leaves no visible marks, nothing even the finest physicians can detect?”

The old swordsman raised his eyes. Their gazes—master and disciple—were equally sharp, like blades.

“Are you asking for someone else,” he asked slowly, “or are you trying to save someone?”

Chu Huaicun met his eyes calmly. His gaze was even colder, clearer—like a mirror. Dressed in a white robe that seemed to illuminate the room, he exuded a lofty, untouchable presence. Most striking of all was the sword at his side, its cool, flowing gleam now equal in brilliance to the one his teacher carried.

“If it exists,” Chu Huaicun said, “then I need the antidote.”